Bon Appétit
Nathan MacKinnon x Reader
Summary: you’re engaged to the most disciplined man in professional hockey, who hasn’t touched dessert in years and can recite his macros in his sleep. But when he drops to his knees in his captain’s bathroom at a team barbecue and tells you you’re sweeter than any brownie could ever be, you realize his self-control has exactly one exception: you.
Warnings: 18+ content
The afternoon sun filters through Gabe Landeskog’s backyard across the perfectly manicured lawn where half the Colorado Avalanche roster sprawls in various states of post-barbecue contentment. You’re perched on the arm of Nate’s chair, his hand resting possessively on your lower back, thumb tracing absent circles against the thin fabric of your sundress.
“Babe, you want another sparkling water?” Nate asks, already starting to stand.
“I’m good,” you say, pressing your palm against his chest to keep him seated. “I can get it myself if I want one.”
“I know you can,” he says, settling back down but pulling you into his lap instead. “Doesn’t mean I can’t get it for you.”
Across the patio, Cale Makar snorts into his beer. “Ugh, you’re disgustingly in love. It’s actually offensive.”
“Jealousy’s not a good look on you,” Nate fires back, but he’s grinning, pressing a kiss to your shoulder that makes you shiver despite the heat.
You’ve been engaged for three months now — three months since Nate proposed on a hiking trail at sunrise, both of you sweaty and breathless, his carefully planned speech abandoned in favor of “I can’t wait anymore, I need you to be my wife.” You’d said yes before he could even get the ring out of his pocket.
“I’m not jealous,” Cale protests. “I’m just saying, some of us are trying to enjoy our off-season without watching you two be all-” he waves his hand vaguely, “-like that.”
“Like what?” You ask innocently.
“Like you’re the only two people in the world,” Gabe’s wife, Melissa, supplies, but she’s smiling. “It’s actually very sweet. Ignore him.”
“We’re not that bad,” Nate says.
“You are,” chorus at least four different voices.
You laugh, tucking yourself closer against Nate’s chest. You love this — the easy camaraderie, the way his teammates have welcomed you into their circle like you’ve always belonged there. When you first started dating Nate two years ago, you’d been terrified of this part. You were just an occupational therapist from Denver, hardly the type to fit into the NHL world of models and influencers. But Nate had held your hand through every introduction, every team event, until it stopped feeling scary and started feeling like family.
“Alright, alright,” Gabe calls out, standing up and clapping his hands together. “Who’s ready for dessert? Mel made her famous triple chocolate brownies, we’ve got ice cream, pie-”
“I’m good,” Nate says immediately.
The speed of his response makes you bite back a smile. You’ve watched Nate turn down dessert at every single team function for the two years you’ve known him. Watched him politely refuse birthday cake, wedding cake, championship celebration cake. His discipline is legendary — bordering on obsessive, if you’re being honest. No sugar, no refined carbs, no gluten, no dairy unless it’s specifically approved by his nutritionist.
“Come on,” Scott Wedgewood groans. “It’s the off-season. Live a little.”
“I am living,” Nate says. “I feel great.”
“You feel like a robot,” Martin Nečas chimes in. “When’s the last time you had a cookie?”
Nate considers this. “I don’t remember.”
“Exactly!” Martin throws his hands up. “This is what I’m saying. You’ve forgotten what cookies taste like.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Nate argues. “I just don’t need them.”
“Everyone needs cookies,” Cale says solemnly.
You’re trying so hard not to laugh that your shoulders are shaking. Nate notices, squeezing your hip. “You think this is funny?”
“I think you’re very disciplined,” you say diplomatically.
“She thinks you’re crazy,” Cale translates. “We all do. In a loving way.”
“My diet works for me,” Nate says, and there’s an edge to his voice now — the same edge that appears whenever anyone questions his methods, his training, his relentless pursuit of perfection. “I’m not going to apologize for taking care of my body.”
“No one’s asking you to apologize,” Gabe says peacefully. “We’re asking you to have a brownie.”
“Hard pass.”
You can feel the tension creeping into Nate’s shoulders, so you slide your fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you know he likes. He relaxes incrementally.
“What about you, Y/N?” Melissa asks. “Brownie? Ice cream?”
“Maybe in a bit,” you say. “I’m still full from those burgers.”
“Which were incredible,” you add to Gabe, who beams.
“Secret’s in the seasoning,” he says. “I’ll give you the recipe.”
“Please do. I’ve been trying to expand my cooking repertoire beyond pasta and tacos.”
“Pasta,” Nate mutters, and you elbow him gently.
“Some of us eat pasta, babe.”
“I know. I’m not saying you shouldn’t.”
“You’re thinking it very loudly.”
He grins, unrepentant. “I would never.”
The conversation flows around you — playoff predictions for next season, summer vacation plans, someone’s new boat. You’re only half-listening, too aware of the way Nate’s hand has started sliding higher on your thigh, fingers playing with the hem of your dress. It’s subtle enough that no one else would notice, but you notice. You always notice.
“You okay?” You murmur, low enough that only he can hear.
“Perfect,” he says, but his eyes have gone dark in a way you recognize. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“About how good you look in this dress.”
Heat flushes through you. “Nate.”
“What? I can’t compliment my fiancée?”
“You can compliment me without looking at me like-” you break off, glancing around, but everyone’s distracted by an argument about whether Cale or Devon Toews is the better golfer.
“Like what?” Nate’s voice is all innocence, but his hand squeezes your thigh.
“You know what.”
“Do I?”
You shift in his lap, ostensibly to get more comfortable, and feel him tense. “Yeah,” you breathe. “You do.”
He makes a low sound in the back of his throat. “You’re playing with fire.”
“Maybe I like fire.”
“Jesus,” he mutters. Then, louder, “Hey Gabe, where’s your bathroom again?”
“Powder room’s just inside, down the hall to the left,” Gabe calls back without looking.
Nate stands, lifting you with him effortlessly. “Be right back.”
“I have to go check … something,” you smooth your dress, already moving toward the house.
“Oh my god,” you hear Cale say. “Are they seriously-”
“Let them be young and in love,” Melissa says, laughing.
You’re blushing furiously as Nate guides you through the sliding glass door, his hand firm on your lower back. The cool air conditioning hits you like a wall, raising goosebumps on your arms.
“Down the hall to the left,” you remind him.
“I heard him.”
The powder room is small and elegant, all white subway tile and gold fixtures. Nate locks the door behind you and you’re about to turn around when he’s already there, spinning you to face him, backing you against the sink.
“Hi,” he says, and his smile is wicked.
“Hi yourself.”
“You know what you do to me in this dress?”
“I’m getting an idea.”
He laughs, low and rough, and then he’s kissing you — deep and hungry and tasting like the lemonade he’s been drinking all afternoon. You wind your arms around his neck, pressing closer, and he lifts you onto the counter in one smooth motion.
“Nate,” you gasp when he moves to your neck, kissing and sucking in a way that’s definitely going to leave marks. “We can’t—everyone’s right outside-”
“Then you better be quiet,” he murmurs against your skin.
Your head falls back against the mirror. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair,” he says, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing your dress higher, “is you sitting in my lap all afternoon looking like this. Smelling like this. Driving me fucking crazy.”
“I was just sitting there.”
“You were torturing me.” His fingers find the edge of your underwear and you forget how to breathe. “All I could think about was getting you alone. Getting my mouth on you.”
“We should—oh god—we should go home-”
“Don’t want to wait,” he says, dropping to his knees, and suddenly his face is between your thighs and you have to clap your hand over your mouth to keep from making a sound.
He hooks your legs over his shoulders, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter, and then his mouth is on you through the thin fabric of your underwear and you see stars.
“Nate,” you whimper, “please-”
He pulls back just enough to hook his fingers in the waistband. “Lift up, baby.”
You do, and he slides them down your legs, tucking them into his pocket with a grin that should be illegal. Then he’s back between your thighs, no barriers now, and the first touch of his tongue has you grabbing his hair for balance.
“Fuck,” you breathe, trying desperately to stay quiet. “Fuck, that’s—oh my god-”
He hums against you, the vibration making you jolt, and his hands grip your hips to hold you steady. You can feel him smile against you — the bastard — and then he’s working you with his tongue in a way that suggests he has no intention of rushing this.
“You taste so fucking good,” he groans, the words muffled. “So sweet. Better than any dessert.”
“You’re—oh god, right there—you’re insane-”
“About you? Yeah.” He pulls back just enough to look up at you, his eyes dark and blown wide. “Could do this for hours. All day. Just making you feel good.”
“Nate, please, I need-”
“What do you need, baby? Tell me.”
“You know what I need.”
“Want to hear you say it.”
You tug his hair, impatient. “Stop teasing.”
“Make me.”
You’re about to argue when he seals his mouth over you again, sucking hard, and whatever you were going to say dissolves into a strangled moan. His tongue is relentless, finding every spot that makes you shake, and when he slides two fingers inside you, you have to bite down on your other hand to keep quiet.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “So good for me. So perfect.”
The praise sends heat flooding through you, and he knows it, the smug bastard. He’s always known exactly what to say, how to touch you, what you need before you even know you need it. Two years together and he still takes you apart like it’s his favorite thing in the world.
Maybe it is.
“Getting close,” he says, and it’s not a question. He can read your body like a book, knows every tell, every sign. “Can feel it. You gonna come for me, baby?”
“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, just don’t stop, please don’t stop-”
“Never.” His fingers curl inside you, finding that perfect spot, and his tongue works faster. “Come on, sweetheart. Let me taste it.”
You shatter, clamping your hand over your mouth just in time to muffle the cry that tears from your throat. Pleasure crashes through you in waves and Nate works you through it, gentle now, coaxing every last aftershock until you’re trembling and oversensitive.
“Too much,” you finally manage, tugging weakly at his hair.
He pulls back, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, and when he looks up at you his chin is wet and his expression is pure satisfaction. “You okay?”
“I—yeah. More than okay.” You’re still catching your breath, head spinning. “That was-”
“I know.” He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and leans in to kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue and it sends another aftershock of pleasure through you.
“Your turn,” you say when you can think again, reaching for his belt.
He catches your hands, bringing them to his lips instead. “Later.”
“Nate, you can’t just-”
“Want to,” he says simply. “Want to take my time with you when we get home. Right now I just wanted to taste you. Savor my treat.”
You stare at him. “You’re serious.”
“Completely.” He helps you down from the counter, steadying you when your legs wobble. “Besides, if I let you start something right now, we’ll be in here for the next half hour and people will definitely notice.”
“Pretty sure they already noticed.”
He grins, unrepentant. “Worth it.”
You shake your head, trying to fix your hair in the mirror. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
“I love you,” you correct, and his expression softens.
“Love you too.” He kisses you again, gentle this time. “More than anything.”
“Even more than your meal prep?”
“Even more than my meal prep.”
“Wow. That’s serious.”
He laughs, the sound bright and unguarded. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You’re the one who just-” you gesture vaguely at the counter, “-in your captain’s bathroom.”
“And you’re the one who followed me in,” he corrects. “What about it?”
“What about it? Nate, we’re going to have to go back out there and face these people.”
“So?”
“So they’re going to know exactly what we were doing!”
“Let them know.” He slides his arms around your waist, pulling you against him. “I’m not ashamed of being crazy about my fiancée.”
You bury your face in his chest. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“What a way to go.”
You can’t help but laugh, even as you’re dying of embarrassment. This is Nate — sweet and intense and occasionally ridiculous, and god help you, you love every part of him.
“Okay,” you say finally. “Okay. We can do this. We’re adults. We can walk out there with dignity.”
“Absolutely.”
“Cool and casual.”
“The coolest.”
“Nate?”
“Yeah?”
“My underwear’s in your pocket.”
He grins, patting said pocket. “I know. Keeping them.”
“You can’t-”
“Can and will. Come on.” He unlocks the door, checking the hallway before pulling you out. “Coast is clear.”
You make it halfway back to the patio before Cale’s voice carries through the open door: “Twenty bucks says Mac’s got that stupid satisfied grin on his face.”
“Sucker bet,” Devon responds. “Look at him.”
Nate doesn’t even have the grace to look embarrassed. He just guides you back to the chair and pulls you into his lap like nothing happened, like he didn’t just make you come apart in someone else’s bathroom.
“Feel better?” Gabe asks innocently.
“Much,” Nate says.
You hide your face in his shoulder, burning with embarrassment, but he just laughs and holds you closer.
“So,” Melissa says, wheeling out a cart laden with desserts. “Who wants what? We’ve got brownies, ice cream, lemon meringue pie, chocolate chip cookies-”
“I’m good,” Nate says, and you can hear the smile in his voice.
“Seriously,” Cale says. “Not even a bite?”
“Nah. Just had my fill.”
You make a strangled sound and Nate’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. His hand finds yours, threading your fingers together.
“What about you, Y/N?” Melissa asks.
“I’m-” you clear your throat. “I’m okay. Thank you though.”
“You sure? These brownies are really-”
“She’s sure,” Nate interrupts, and when you glance up at him his eyes are dancing with mischief. “She’s very satisfied.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, but you’re fighting a smile.
Cale makes a gagging noise. “I can’t believe you two. In the bathroom. At a team function.”
“What happens in the powder room stays in the powder room,” Nate says solemnly.
“That’s Vegas, you idiot,” Devon says.
“Same principle.”
“It’s really not.”
Gabe’s laughing so hard he’s crying. “I’m never going to be able to use that bathroom again without thinking about this.”
“You’re welcome,” Nate says.
“I hate you,” you inform him.
“No you don’t.”
“I’m reconsidering the engagement.”
“Liar.” He kisses your temple. “You’re stuck with me.”
And the terrible thing is he’s right. You are stuck with him — this sweet, intense, occasionally ridiculous man who turns down birthday cake but devours you like you’re the only sustenance he needs. Who drives his teammates crazy with his discipline but throws it all out the window when it comes to you.
“For the record,” you say quietly, just for him, “you’re going to pay for this later.”
His grin is sharp and promising. “Looking forward to it.”
Across the patio, Melissa starts serving dessert to everyone else. The brownies do look incredible — rich and fudgy, still slightly warm. The ice cream is that fancy kind from the artisan place downtown. But Nate doesn’t even glance at them. His attention is entirely on you, his hand warm on your thigh, his thumb tracing idle patterns that make you shiver.
“You really don’t want any?” You ask, nodding toward the spread.
“Don’t need it,” he says. “Got everything I want right here.”
“That’s so cheesy.”
“You love it when I’m cheesy.”
“I really don’t.”
“You’re blushing.”
“That’s residual embarrassment.”
He laughs, pulling you closer. “Sure it is.”
The afternoon wears on, the sun sinking lower, painting everything golden. Someone starts a game of cornhole. Music drifts from the speakers. You relax into Nate’s embrace, letting the conversation wash over you — trash talk about next season, gossip about trades and drafts, someone’s terrible golf swing.
“Hey Mac,” Martin calls out after a while. “You sure you don’t want even one cookie? They’re really good.”
Nate doesn’t even hesitate. “I’m sure. Already had the sweetest thing here.”
The entire patio groans.
“That was awful,” Cale says.
“That was genuinely painful to hear,” Scott adds.
“I thought it was sweet,” Melissa offers.
“Thank you, Mel,” Nate says.
“Still awful though.”
“Can’t please everyone.”
You’re laughing, red-faced and mortified and completely, utterly in love. This is your life now — team barbecues and terrible hockey puns and a fiancé who’s more obsessed with you than he is with his macros. Who looks at you like you hung the moon, who makes you feel cherished and desired and completely safe all at once.
“What are you thinking about?” Nate murmurs, low enough that only you can hear.
“You.”
“Yeah?”
“How lucky I am.”
His expression softens, goes tender in a way he only ever shows you. “Baby, I’m the lucky one.”
“We could debate this.”
“We could. But I’d win.”
“Confident.”
“About you? Always.”
You kiss him, soft and sweet, not caring who’s watching. He makes a content sound, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.
“Get a room!” Someone yells — probably Cale.
Nate pulls back just enough to yell back, “We did! You didn’t like that either!”
The entire patio dissolves into laughter, and you hide your burning face in his neck, but you’re laughing too. You can’t help it.
“I love you,” you tell him, quiet and sure.
“Love you too,” he says. “More than any dessert in the world.”
“Even the triple chocolate brownies?”
“Defintely more than those.”
“That’s true love right there.”
“Damn right it is.”
The sun sets. The party continues. Someone breaks out a guitar. Melissa brings out a fire pit and marshmallows, though Nate politely declines those too. You stay wrapped in his arms, warm and sated and ridiculously happy.
Later, when you’re finally home and Nate’s making good on his promise to take his time with you, you’ll think about this moment. About the way he chose you over dessert, over discipline, over everything he usually holds sacred. About the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing worth breaking his rules for.
But right now, in Gabe’s backyard, surrounded by friends and laughter and the smell of sugar you’re both ignoring, you just hold him close and let yourself be loved.
“Hey,” Nate says after a while.
“Hey yourself.”
“Thanks for coming with me today.”
You pull back to look at him. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugs, a little self-conscious. “I know team stuff can be a lot sometimes. Appreciate you being here.”
“Nate.” You cup his face, making him meet your eyes. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. These are your people. Which makes them my people too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses you again, and it tastes like promise, like forever, like coming home.
“Ready to head out?” He asks eventually.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
You say your goodbyes — enduring Cale’s knowing looks and Scott’s eyebrow waggling and Gabe’s promise to send you the burger recipe. Melissa hugs you tight and whispers, “He’s crazy about you, you know. In the best way.”
“I know,” you whisper back. “I’m pretty crazy about him too.”
In the car, Nate immediately reaches for your hand, lacing your fingers together on the center console. The city lights blur past, the radio playing something soft and forgettable.
“Good day?” He asks.
“Great day.”
“Even the part where I traumatized everyone with my lack of filter?”
“Somehow even that part.”
He laughs. “You’re terrible.”
“You love it.”
“I really do.”
The drive home is short, familiar. You’ve made this trip a hundred times, a thousand times, from his place to yours and back again until the distinction stopped mattering. Next month you’re moving into a new place together — a house with a yard and space for a home gym and a kitchen that makes Nate’s eyes light up when he talks about all the meal prep he can do.
“What do you want to do when we get home?” You ask innocently.
Nate’s grin is sharp. “I’ve got a few ideas.”
“Do they involve dessert?”
“Baby,” he says, “they involve you. So yeah. The only kind of dessert I want.”
You laugh, squeezing his hand. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You knew what you were signing up for.”
“I really did.”
And as he pulls into the driveway, as he helps you out of the car and pulls you close for another kiss under the porch light, you think about how perfect this is. How right. This man who’s disciplined and focused and completely unhinged when it comes to you.
Your fiancé. Your future husband. Your favorite person in the world.
Who needs dessert when you’ve got this?
“Come on,” Nate says, tugging you toward the door. “Let me show you how much I love you.”
“You just did that at Gabe’s.”
“That was the appetizer,” he says, and his eyes are dark with promise. “Now I want the full course.”
You laugh, following him inside, and let the door close behind you.
After all, everyone needs dessert sometimes.
Even if Nate’s version looks a lot different than everyone else’s.
And honestly? You wouldn’t have it any other way.
